


don't you hear me howling?

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bickering, Dry Humping, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Post-Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, short king intensifies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29080782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: Her plan would be foolproof, if he wasn’t so godsdamned irresistible.Jazzele finds herself in heat, G'raha finds himself jealous of her attentions, and they are both ridiculously in denial.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 15
Kudos: 128
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Crystal Exarch x WoL Recommendations





	don't you hear me howling?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [writingbunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingbunny/gifts).



Jazzele’s first clue should have been the vivid landscape of her dreams.

Towering steel frameworks and sunlight streaming from terraces, verdant greenery and strange blossoms, at once so familiar and yet so foreign to her, as if half-remembered in a daze.

The cloying scent of fresh parchment, levinstrike shattering the aether, Lakeland lavender on the autumnal wind.

She was wandering the halls of the Crystarium, possessed of a desperate frustration—she was searching for something, some _one…_

Someone valuable, someone beloved; she couldn’t stand knowing she’d ever lost them, how could she have allowed such a thing to even transpire?

A tender voice, at once pleading and comforting. Her hands caught between ones of crystal and flesh, warm and calloused around hers.

“Ah— _there_ you are.”

_The Crystal Exarch._

She couldn’t make out what he was saying—and why was he still wearing that damned hood?

Impatient and prickly, she swept both hands under the folds of fabric, throwing it from his face—

The scenery blurred, nauseating and unsettling. She was sitting on sheer ice, frigid and—no, it was glass—or was it crystal—?

G’raha Tia, his russet hair unbound, was on his knees before her, hands sliding up her bared legs, under the gilded finery of her gown, rucking the shimmering cloth up to her hips. She squirmed closer, hooking a leg over his shoulder as he pressed scorching kisses to the inside of her thighs. “Jazzele,” he whispered, his breath hotter than flame against her flesh. “Please, allow me—“

“Anything,” she pleaded, “gods, _anything,_ as long as it’s you— _”_

And then his mouth was on _her,_ and she can hardly think at all.

Can hardly process his tongue parting her, his nose nuzzling into her, _feeling_ his chuckle more than hearing it—he had only just begun and she was already so, _so_ close—

Jazzele wakes into a full-body shudder, the quiet aftershocks of her climax rippling through her and driving a whine from her throat as she buries her face into her pillow, hips bucking unconsciously into what hadso surely _been_ there, nails digging into the sheets as she struggles to catch her breath.

She listens to the ragged drum of her heartbeat as she attempts to parse dream from reality.

She had dreamed of him, certainly, and entertained the fantasy of him in such decadent, obscene ways far more often than she cared to admit—

But _that…_

She kicks off the tangle of sheets, feeling far too warm, the sheen of sweat plastering her hair to her forehead. This is strange, it is usually passing chilly in the Rising Stones, let alone _warm…_

A cool bath would be welcome, and a glass of water—nay, perhaps a _pitcher,_ her throat felt razed from how _parched_ she was…

She stretches, her limbs feeling tingly and strange, as if not wholly her own before her feet hit the floor.

She flinches from the flagstones—gods, they felt colder than _ice._ How did she feel so warm and cool all at once? She found herself entertaining the thought of simply tucking back into the sheets, of taking her own need in her hands—

“There is much to do and little enough time,” she criticizes herself before forcing herself to stand, shuddering as the cool air sweeps over her fevered body. She fetches a robe from the armoir—

—and then promptly yanks it off as if it is a living thing, her skin positively _writhing_ from the sensation. It felt too… too _much._ Hells, even her simple shift felt like far too much clothing, too tight and yet too loose around her body, the very fibers of the fabric setting her nerves on end.

She catches sight of herself in her mirror—cheeks flushed crimson, eyes glittering bright in the dim morning light. She rakes a hand through her lilac hair, a vain attempt to restore it to some semblance of neatness. Gods, if she didn’t know better, she looked as if—

“Oh!” she gasps, clutching a hand to her mouth. “Oh, oh _gods_ no.”

The last time she had felt so strange had been _years_ ago, before the events in the First, in Ala Mhigo, before even _Ishgard—_

Finding herself in a frenzy in a strange tavern and seeking out one of her fellow adventures—a Hyur, tall with kind eyes—and tugging him into her quarters with little thought besides pure, infernal _need—_

The Viera were long-lived—and as such, their oestrus cycles were irregular things, sometimes never cycling completely for a decade.

Long enough for someone to entirely _forget_ such a thing occurred.

She stares down at her hands, trembling, struggling to steady her ragged breathing. Had it truly felt like _this,_ even then? Gods above, she felt unquenchable, and all she wanted to find the first person who would have her and drag them into the bed without so much as a second thought—

Well, not the first person.

No, she wanted one in particular.

_Raha—_

With a groan she shakes her head, lupine ears folding back in distress. No. Her feelings aside—and this goddamned miserable business of her biological imperatives—he was a friend. A companion. A _Scion,_ for gods’ sakes, not someone to bed when it was simply convenient. Even if this was truly a heat—and she prayed still even now, despite the burning need deep in her belly that it was anything but—she could not treat him so carelessly, for she cared for him far too much.

She was the Warrior of Light. And she would not falter so easily against the limitations of her body. She had suffered worse, and _would_ endure much and more.

A simple heat would be nothing to contend with.

Straightening her shoulders, Jazzele kneels down to pick up the abandoned robe, shrugging into it (ignoring her body _screaming_ against it) and tying the sash tight around her waist.

She would have that bath. And she would don her dancer’s apparel, and go about her day as she had planned. For she could afford no compromise, not even now.

She almost believes it as she leaves her quarters, the residents of the Rising Stones only now beginning to stir, as she makes her way to the lavatories. She walks quickly without looking, staring straight ahead at her goal—

_—_ and entirely misses a certain red-headed Miqo’te just below her eyesight.

“Jazzele!” G’raha yelps, stumbling backwards. “I—I was not expecting—“

“My apologies!” she gasps, reaching out to steady him. “My mind was—“

Jazzele falls entirely silent when her eyes settle on what he was wearing—

—Rather, what he was _not_ wearing.

Skin. So, _so_ much bare skin. Ilms and ilms of it, freckled and well-muscled—her eyes catch on the sparse scarlet curls on his chest, following its path down and down, disappearing beneath the hem of a towel at his waist, still damp from the baths— _oh_ , she could lick every last droplet off him and never tire of it—

“Jazzele, are you well—?” His voice yanks her attention upwards to his face—and _that_ is a torture all its own. Scarlet eyes wide and full of concern, the lovely flush on his cheeks, and his _hair—_ dark as blood, it lays coiled over one shoulder—he smells impossibly delicious, almond, cedar, strong, black tea, and beneath it something _more_ —

“— _quite_ well, thank you!” she yelps, a flush of horror sweeping over her. She had been downright _leering_ at her best friend. “G-Good morning to you.”

And before he can respond, Jazzele slips past him and slams the door shut behind her into the baths, panting against the door, her own body betraying her as she slides a hand down her stomach, digging into the cleft between her legs with a needy whine.

Well.

Her plan would be foolproof, if he wasn’t so godsdamned _irresistible._

* * *

To say G’raha Tia was aware of Jazzele Danzleikr was an understatement.

Ever since he first caught sight of her in the Mor Dhona wilds, her pert nose wrinkled in a show of amusement at his theatrics, he had been attuned to her very existence.

Viera were a rarity in Eorzea, and she was the first he had ever seen. There were rumors of their captivating beauty and mysterious nature, but none of the gossip held even a candle up to reality. When he first found himself unable to tear his eyes away from her, his very body adjusting to her presence as if she were a lodestone, he brushed it off on the curious nature of the Viera.

But Viera—rather, Viis—were much more commonplace in the First. And while all were beautiful, none of them held him in that strange trance that Jazzele did with the simplest of smiles. The impetuousness of youth, then; possibly addled in conjunction with hero-worship and admiration. He explained away his feelings with rationale and logic, and after a century away from her, he thought surely such… _base_ urges would have all but died away.

Even scrutinizing him with a moue of distaste at his deception, he struggled to speak to her, wallowing in her cool, aquamarine gaze.

Enchanting was too weak a word for what she did to him. Mesmerizing, captivating, _bewitching—_ reality itself dulled around her, and even as the Crystal Exarch, cowled and cloaked in secrecy, he found himself conjuring excuses of out nothingness to speak to her, to hear her thoughts on Norvrand. Yearning to linger just a little longer with her, stealing undeserved moments for himself. It was easier to conceal how he felt in those days—she couldn’t see the blush that rose to his cheeks, a strange electricity overtaking him when he danced with her in combat, constantly caught off-guard by the easy grace of her movements contrasted with the lethality of her chakrams.

But after The Tempest, it got harder.

And when she woke him with tears, dragging him into a fierce hug as soon as his eyes opened in the Syrcus Tower, it grew _impossible._

And Jazzele herself did not help matters in the slightest.

If she kept a certain distance in front of others, Jazzele was nothing but companionable warmth and sweetness to her companions. There was an almost maternal quality to the way she constantly wanted—nay, _needed_ —to take care of everyone. Ensuring everyone ate their meals even if she skipped hers, going out of her way to assist with healing and happily dispensing advice and knowledge. She was downright tender with the twins, often patting their silver heads affectionately accompanied by those warm smiles which turned G’raha’s knees to water.

If she bore sorrow or grief, she never showed it, instead burying it deep down in order to be the source of strength and compassion the Scions needed her to be.

It would have been nothing short of a blessing if she treated him cooly. If only his lies and deceit had made her mistrustful and vengeful against him.

_Anything_ would have been easier to bear than her kindness.

And she didn’t have the smallest clue what she did to him.

How his heart raced, nigh bursting out of his chest when she gazed down at him with those sapphire eyes and the long fringe of her lashes, patiently correcting the pins in his hair she’d put into place in his first week on the Source. During meals her hands would wander over to his chair, rubbing slow circles into his shoulders in a movement he was certain _she_ thought was calming but only stoked a quiet fury in him, a combustion which consumed him into the small bells of the night, wishing her hands were on _him,_ sliding downwards, her sweet breath in his ear—

All of her careless tokens of affection cut him to the quick and left nothing in their wake.

He was falling hopelessly in love with a woman who deserved far better than him, and she seemed determined to _torture_ him with it.

But Jazzele had never been quite so radiant as this morning, and G’raha should have known he was doomed from the start.

The luxurious mane of her lilac hair twined over her shoulder, still damp from the baths, picking at her fruit with an expression of consternation on her lovely features. A rosy flush across her cheeks and nose, and that was to say nothing of the _scent_ of her. She had always smelled intoxicating; freesia and lavender a tempting bouquet that clung to his clothes when she was gone, but _now…_

He knows it certainly could not be the case, but she smells godsdamned _mouthwatering._

G’raha stabs petulantly at his breakfast, on-edge and harried. He repeats the worn mantra in his mind—she was a friend, nothing more, and it was a poor excuse to expect her to return such sentiments. She cared for him as she did with all her companions.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

No matter how much it pained him.

“G’raha,” Jazzele chimes sweetly, leaning towards him. “I have some errands this morning for the Mor Dhona Orphanage, if you are available.”

He stares down into his porridge as if it could possibly hold the answers to his plight, knowing the mere sight of her would wound him. He forces his voice into an easy, polite tone. “What tasks did you have in mind?”

“Rowena has a shipment of fresh fruit for them,” she says meticulously, “as well as clothes and shoes. I… _may_ have mentioned your talents as a storyteller to the headmistress, and the children seemed quite eager to have a skilled bard in their midst to spin tales.”

He laughs. “You flatter me, truly.”

He risks a glance over at her from behind the fringe of his hair—even now, her beauty was so fair it was cruel.

She cocks a slender brow at him and smiles. “I am no flatterer, for I speak truly. None can match your talent at storytelling, G’raha.”

“I am no certified bard—no longer, certainly.”

She huffs. “I’ve heard you with a lute—you could put your skills against even the Wandering Minstrel himself.” The jewels of her dancer’s attire clink as Jazzele leans forward, the wild, heady scent of her threatening to send him into what he could only think of as a _frenzy._ “So, is that a yes?”

G’raha leans back to regard her. “I do not think I can deny you anything, Jazzele.”

She laughs demurely behind her hand—a radiant sound so lovely a knife to the heart would be more welcome. “ _Anything?”_

She moves in that unsettlingly graceful way of hers, quick yet languid. Her nails are cool against his cheek as she reaches up to adjust the pins in his hair.

She’s too close— _far_ too close all at once, her lips parted, full and flushed. It would be easier to drown alive than to be looked upon in such a way, as if she truly cared for him in the same ways he did—

G’raha’s body lurches away automatically, hand raised to gently bat hers away from him.

The hurt flashes across her features, and his stomach sinks with regret.

“I-I apolo—“

“No need,” she says quickly—her words are fast and automatic. “I apologize for overstepping. Meet me at Rowena’s in a bell?”

Jazzele doesn’t want for his response. She picks up her uneaten plate and crosses over to the bar to drop it off, and G’raha is left watching her slender shoulders slump as she departs.

Of all the _godsdamned_ fool things to do—

“You know,” comes a wry voice from behind him, “you could just _tell_ her.”

Thancred Waters watches G’raha from his mug of black coffee with a smirk that rankles him to the core.

“Tell her what, exactly?” G’raha bites out.

The gunbreaker laughs, his golden eyes dancing.

“Need I spell it out for you, old man? Can you not see what is so _agonizingly_ obvious to the rest of us?” he teases.

G’raha sighs, feeling the hot wash of embarrassment climbing up his neck. “She is—and shall always be—a dear friend to me, nothing more.”

Thancred makes a strangled cough behind his hand. “And my uncle’s the archbishop.”

Irritation loosens G’raha’s tongue. “I would appreciate if you _wouldn’t_ comment so liberally on matters which do not concern—“

Thancred shrugs. “Not commenting. Just observing. That’s my job, after all. _And_ it’s my job to notice when my _comrades_ are about to jump at each other’s throats in sheer denial of that which is so blatantly obvious to the rest of us, even Urianger.”

The bookman’s head perks up from his tome. “Of what dost thou—?”

A hundred angry comments locked behind his teeth, G’raha leaves the table. To be taunted unknowingly by Jazzele was one matter, but even his patience ran thin at outright mockery on Thancred’s behalf.

A small voice—quiet and calm, from a man all but dead in another star, lingers in his mind.

_You owe her the truth, now more than ever._

To speak the truth might be the _right_ thing, but it wouldn’t be the _kind_ thing.

Not to himself, and certainly not to her.

Better for them to dwell in ignorance—it was only _his_ self-control which was being tested, after all.

If only he had the faintest idea then to what degree she would test him this day.

* * *

Jazzele lectured herself that she shouldn’t take it personally—it was only natural for someone to react in such a way when their physical boundaries were pushed, and perhaps she had overestimated G’raha’s friendliness towards her—

—the gods knew she was most certainly not feeling _herself_ today of all days—

And yet, the pain lanced through her as his hand brushed hers away, that strange far-off look in his eyes, at once vulnerable and hardened, lingering with her still as she retreated to the safety of her quarters.

The urge took her yet _again_ to take her need into her own hands but she kept them stiffly in her lap. No. She could not— _would_ not think of him in such a manner. She owed him better. If she had wronged him, she would simply have to make up for it, and do a better job of respecting his boundaries when she was in such a state.

G’raha was her friend. Her dearest friend, with whom she trusted everything to. She owed him her utmost respect and decency,

Her physical—and, gods above, _emotional_ —desires aside, she would be courteous.

She was still convincing herself of this as she went to Rowena’s counter, requisitioning the girls for the crates of food and clothing which she had ordered.

“Ah, Warrior.”

Her ears perk up at the sound—

But it did not belong to the Miqo’te she was hoping for.

No, instead he was a Keeper, tall for his race, with dark hair and eyes like pale spring blossoms. “Will you be needing assistance with these goods?”

“Ah, thank you,” she smiles kindly, “but that need not be necessary. One of the Scions will be assisting me—but I very much appreciate the offer.”

He grins, baring his canines. They reminded her of G’raha’s—she had spent countless bells fantasizing about those teeth, how they would feel at her throat, her breast, and further _still—_

“The pleasure is all mine, Warrior. It is a rare opportunity to work alongside one such as you.”

She laughs. “I fear you shall be sick of me soon enough!”

His sable ears cant forward. “I find myself doubting—“

“Jazzele.”

Ah, _there_ he was.

G’raha Tia seems less perturbed than earlier, greeting her with one of those blazing grins she had grown so fond of. “I trust everything is well?”

But he doesn’t look at her as he speaks.

No, he was leveling the Keeper a sidelong glance, and there was something in his gaze she couldn’t recognize, something she swore she’d never seen before—only an inkling of thus during their confrontations with Emet-Selch and Elidibus.

The Keeper bows courteously. “I was simply offering my help to your Warrior, but I can see she is in good hands.”

G’raha’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I certainly hope so. Are these the crates for the orphanage?”

“Ah, yes, these are the clothes,” he gestures to three crates, “and those are the fruit. I am happy to—“

“I shouldn’t think it would be necessary,” G’raha says curtly, kneeling down and heaving one crate onto his shoulder with ease. It was surely upwards of a hundred ponzes, but he tosses it over his shoulder without so much as a sound.

Jazzele picks up one of the crates of clothing and follows him out of the office, struggling to catch up with his brisk pace.

If she didn’t know any better, she would swear he was muttering a series of low oaths under his breath—“godsforsaken _catboy_ —“

“Excuse me?” She surprises into laughter, closing the distance easily with her longer strides. “G’raha, the man was only trying to help.”

_“Help?”_ G’raha repeats incredulously. “That man had more than helping you with _crates_ on his mind.”

Jazzele frowns. “He was nothing short of respectful, there is no need to—“

“He looked at you as if—“ G’raha cuts himself off, his ears flattening. “It is not my place. I apologize.”

“As if _what?”_

He frowns, pausing to adjust his grip on his crate. “As if you were something to _devour,_ ” he sighs pointedly. “It was… well. Not something I can easily stomach. You are to be respected, not… not _fetishized.”_

“G’raha, my profession is that of a dancer, and if you think I cannot handle one ogling catboy—by the Twelve, there was _nothing_ lurid in that conversation!”

“I apologize for my impoliteness,” he mutters, not sounding sorry at all.

First his irritation at her over breakfast—and now…

… if she didn’t know better, she would call him _jealous._

But jealous over _what?_

The answer seems obvious, and yet it eludes her entirely.

She had a mind to interrogate him further on the matter later, but gods help her, it was entirely swept from her mind on their second trip to Rowena’s warehouse.

It was late autumn but they were in the middle of a last blaze of summer, and G’raha cast off his scarf and overtunic, leaving him in just the white undertunic, his pale arms corded with muscle, sweat beading on his brow as he heaved another box over his shoulder—

She was most certainly _not_ fantasizing about being hoisted over his shoulder in such a manner.

No. That would be ridiculous, immature, _preposterous—_

But _could_ he? Furthermore, if he had his way with her, _would_ he?

Jazzele feels sorely in need of another bath by the time their chores were done, nearly itching out of her very skin and frenzied.

G’raha had so easily accused the Keeper of unsavory intentions, but it was _her_ who was struggling to control herself around him, and he was none the wiser.

It was a small blessing that her duties kept her distracted from the inferno which threatened to consume her.

It was easy to excuse the pallor of her skin for fatigue from lifting the crates, and she busies herself with sorting out the clothing as the children swarmed the silvertongued bard they had heard so much of, offering G’raha countless picturebooks to read from before he finally settled on one.

She couldn’t help but smile at his selection: the tale of the Black Wolf. She found herself wondering what Gaius would think if he saw such a thing—

But the memory of Gaius van Baelsar brings a hundred other more painful ones in The Lochs, and the plight of those doomed children, caught amidst a war far bigger than any of them.

She has an inkling this wasn’t the first time G’raha had done such a thing, and his myriad voices and sense of presence as he reads brings even the most excitable of children still as stone around him, falling into a hush as he details the siege of Castrum Meridianum, Livia sas Junius blocking the way in a show of protection of her leige. It is simplified for the benefit of children, and she cannot help but laugh at the descriptions of the vaunted Warrior of Light—and she wondered if G’raha found humor in it too.

Her arms piled with dresses, Jazzele comes to her feet to deposit them in a trunk.

Her vision swims, the room blurring into a haze of color—she stumbles backwards, vertigo overtaking her, sweeping and nauseating—

She was burning up, that wildfire in her belly growing into an inferno, hotter than Ifrit himself, gods she would _kill_ for water, for something, _anything_ that could bring relief—

Her vision goes black, and she remembers naught.

* * *

G’raha couldn’t believe she could be so daft as to not see what was so _excruciatingly_ obvious to him.

That godsdamned Keeper—

He had borne witness a hundred times over to men and women falling over themselves to please the Warrior of Light. And each and every time she displayed the same blasé innocence, indulging their flirtations with shy smiles and a flutter of her lashes.

He could hardly blame them—he himself was _far_ from immune to her charms.

But something in that man’s gaze ignited something in him.

Something G’raha thought long extinct, desiccated in the wastes of the Tower’s influence.

Something predatory. Protective. _Jealous._

There is an unspoken language with Miqo’te, and removed from his tribe though he was, he knew that body language as if it was his milk-tongue.

That of a Nunh preparing to pounce. The lashing tail, fangs bared, ears perking forward for the smallest of sounds—

His actions had been rude, downright _arrogant_. He could hardly interfere with the Warrior’s affairs.

_But what if she had wanted him—_

That thought consumed him in an endless snarl of fury the entire way to the orphanage, try as he might to disregard it.

He had less than no claim to her, and it was far from his business to dictate who she was attracted to and who she wasn’t.

But godsdamn him, he simply could not _help himself._

But all his irritation evaporates into sheer worry when he watches her stumble, clutching her head as if the Echo itself had overtaken her. Adrenaline and pure instinct strikes him dumb; he drops the picture-book, darting to her side before she falls, limp and boneless in his arms as he carefully lowers her to the floor.

“A wet rag, please,” he tells one of the caretakers, smoothing her brow as he positions her comfortably on the floor. Gods, she was warm—downright _scorching_ under his touch. Had she been running a fever all this time?

He curses himself for his brutishness this morning, cradling the swell of her cheek. “Jazzele, _Jazzele—_ “

She stirs, making a soft noise as she leans into his hand. Her breath fans hot and heavy against his skin, and he chastises himself _yet again_ for the shudder that ripples up his spine at the briefest of brushes from her.

“—Ra… ha…?” she moans, blinking blearily up at him.

A relieved laugh escapes him. “I believe you’ve overexerted yourself,” he tells her softly, brushing the lavender strands of hair from her face.

She hums, a lazy smile playing on her full lips. “You smell…” she reaches a hand out, caressing his face, her thumb pressing over his lips.

It comes out a low purr. “ _Delicious.”_

He freezes under her touch.

“Pardon,” G’raha wheezes.

This… this was highly irregular. This— _this_ was the stuff of his worst fantasies, surely not reality, she wouldn’t—

“And your lips,” she breathes, her fingers carding through his hair, “I think about that mouth far more than—“

The last vestige of sanity within G’raha’s mind spins, mentally calculating all of the events of the day, and drawing a connection between them.

Her reaction this morning when she ran into him in the baths—her behavior at breakfast, so unfettered and agonizingly sweet—

The way that Keeper had reacted to _her—_

And the way he could not stop himself from interfering.

And now, looking up at him with a look he could only describe as _lustful,_ heavy-lidded and that sensual smile on her lips.

He did not know the exact timing of Viera oestrus cycles—they were a remarkably long-lived race, and while Jazzele was young for her kind, it certainly would not be out of the question—

G’raha’s stomach sinks with terror.

He had to get her back to the Rising Stones, _post haste._

“Jazzele,” he says gently, “I’m going to take you home now, alright?”

Her brow furrows. “Oh, but your story—“

“We’ll come back when you’re feeling yourself,” he tells her, lifting her to her feet.

Stubborn and feckless, she struggles against him. “G’raha, I am _fin_ e—“

“I beg to differ,” he says sharply, not letting go of her. “Jazzele, you were out cold, and… not _yourself.”_

“It—“ she turns her head away, ears folding downwards. “It is no matter, I merely—perhaps I should have eaten more—“

“Jazzele,” he calls to her more firmly. “You cannot be the Warrior of Light if you do not allow yourself to rest when your body begs it.”

Her nose wrinkles as she scowls at him and, gods help him, he finds himself struggling against the urge to kiss it.

“Are you well enough to walk?” he says instead.

She drapes an arm around his shoulder, giving him a wry glance. “And if I’m not? Will you throw me over your shoulder like one of those boxes—?”

He squeezes his eyes shut at the very idea, trying as hard as he could _not_ to enjoy the idea. “I would prefer not.”

She downright _pouts,_ a petulant, lovely expression. “Walking it is, then.”

By the grace of the Twelve, the headmistress makes no fuss as he half-carries Jazzele out of the orphanage, and the Warrior herself is surprisingly quiet on their walk home, leaning less and less on him with every step of the way. He keeps his arm tight around her, half out of worry she would faint, and the other—

Well, if that Keeper could smell her, the gods knew who _else_ could.

If he had to fight everyone in Mor Dhona to get her home safely, he would, but he did not relish such an idea—despite the snarling voice in the back his mind telling him otherwise.

She is nearly lucid when they round the corner to the Seventh Heaven, her brow furrowing with confusion. “G’raha, I am well enough, this is _hardly_ necessary—“

“You are going to your quarters and resting until… until this is over. Preferably with some manner of barricade,” he mutters under his breath.

“Until _what_ is over?”

He stares at her, incredulous. “You… I do not wish to be crude, but… I believe, unless I am sorely mistaken, you are… undergoing your oestrus.”

Her ears flatten back in alarm.

“Oh,” she mumbles. “ _That.”_

“It is of no fault of your own—“

“It is nothing,” she huffs, “I am _quite_ well, thank you—“

The Rising Stones is, by some miracle, empty, and he swerves her against the wall, meeting her confused, aquamarine gaze. “Jazzele,” he tells her with some force, “you are… you are _not_ yourself, and _I_ am at risk of going into a heat _myself_ over this.”

She rolls her eyes. “G’raha, don’t be ridiculous—“

G’raha feels his self-control slipping away. Though she was taller, he crowds her against the wall, meeting her eyes with an unwavering gaze.

“My friend,” he seethes, “it is taking every last onze of my self-control to not _pounce you.”_

He did not think he had ever seen her be quite so taken aback.

The silence that falls between them brews thick with the tension, so much so G’raha feels he cannot stand it.

But as ever, she moves before he can.

* * *

It was nearing impossible for Jazzele to focus. She was only half-aware of her words and surroundings, her focus harrowed to the narrow scope of _him._

That firm hand on her waist, fingers digging into her flesh as he helped her walk.

She could feel the rough callouses of his skin, his cool touch at one calming and inflammatory—

The smooth, languid melody of his voice as he pleaded with her.

Those eyes—brilliant and hard as rubies, bearing into hers with such force, such delicious _intensit_ y—

Where was room for rational thought when she wanted nothing more than to pull him into her quarters and never let him leave? She finds herself hazily considering the logistics of his clothing: how quickly could she tear off his shirt, shove his hand up her skirts, cast aside her smalls—

“Jazzele,” he calls softly.

She blinks up at him in a daze—she was subconsciously leaning downwards, drawn as if polarity to his lips.

“You _must_ rest.”

“I don’t…” she licks her lips, swallowing thickly. “I don’t know if I _can.”_ It comes out in a low whine, so entirely unlike her but she couldn’t _bea_ r the heat consuming her, not when he was so, so close and still wasn’t touching her—

As if sensing it, G’raha takes a step back, and she nearly staggers with the loss of him.

“Allow me to escort you to your chambers,” he says, his voice strangely even and cold.

Jazzele grits her teeth against the hurt. Gods, even her very emotions were wholly betraying her.

“I apologize for any inconvenience I have caused you,” she says icily.

He sighs. “You are not—you could _never_ be an inconvenience, but you must rest, or—well, it is no matter—“

“Or _what?”_ Jazzele finds herself whirling on him—they were just outside her chambers now, her voice ringing out so loud surely they would be overheard.

G’raha’s face is swept with a scarlet flush; he looks pointedly away at her.

“T-That Keeper certainly seemed _amenable_ to—“

A wild laugh slips from her, bitter and wrung dry. “You would—you think I was _interested_ in him? That I would consider him when—“ She cuts herself off. She couldn’t do this—not now, not when she felt so godsdamned _hurt_ and sensitive over such trivial matters. She was certain the next words out of her mouth would be a knife through the fragile bond of their friendship, and she could not—not even now, when she wanted nothing more than to crush his mouth to hers—do such a thing.

“When _what?”_ G’raha asks suddenly, his voice sharp and frayed.

Jazzele clutches at the doorknob, struggling with herself.

She couldn’t remember ever being so furious with him—ever being so _hurt_ by him.

And perhaps that pain is what drives her to speak when she would not otherwise.

“When the only one I would wish to spend such a thing with is right before me, only tolerating me by virtue of my condition,” she snaps, the last of her self-control withering into nothingness.

The remark is gone before she can take it back, lingering in the air between them.

G’raha’s eyes widen, ears canting forward.

He looks well and truly stunned by her words where she had expected anger.

“It is of no matter,” she presses on—she feels the hot sting of tears in her eyes, and while she would wish to blame them on her condition, she knows all too well that pain is real, lancing her heart even despite the haze of need occluding her—

The familiar sting of rejection.

“Thank you for escorting me home,” she says stiffly, “and I again must apologize for any inconvenience I have caused you.”

Jazzele turns away to retreat to her quarters.

“No—no, _wait.”_

His hand reaches out, wrapping around her wrist. Strong yet gentle, firm yet kind.

“Jazz,” he whispers. Pained.

She can’t bring herself to look up—she didn’t want pity, she didn’t _deserve_ his kindness—

“You are the only one I think of,” he pleads with her. “The only one I have _ever_ thought of.”

She flinches at his words, for they are the very ones she had _prayed_ she would hear, and she finds she cannot bear them.

“You said it yourself,” she mumbles, “you are addled by my—“

“No,” G’raha says quickly. He moves into her room, closing the door behind him, never letting go of her. “No.”

There is a blazing, blinding look in his eyes. “Since I met you in Mor Dhona, in Syrcus Tower, I have never stopped thinking of you, never stopped _wanting_ you.” He speaks in a rush, as if he has to much to say and not enough words to do such. “When you touched me this morning, it was more than I could bear. I… I did not think your feelings mirrored my own. And I did not wish to trouble you with them.”

“I was afraid,” she whispers, strained, “I didn’t… do you… do you truly…?”

“Yes,” he assures her. “But…” G’raha looks away again, a sheepish smile on his face. “I… I fear this is neither the time nor place for such a conversation—“

“I don’t care,” Jazzele says quickly, “Raha—“

His ears flick upwards at the invocation of his name.

Raha licks his lips in a slow, sensual drag—even in the dim afternoon light, she could see his pupils widening, something about the man _changing_ at her words.

“I fear if you call me that,” he utters, his words dark and low, “I may do something we will both regret.”

Jazzele feels the heat of pure desire and most carnal _need_ sweep through her.

She takes a cautious step closer.

“What… what might you regret?”

His thumb strokes against the tender inside of her wrist and she _shudders_ at his touch, struggling against the low whine of need building in her throat.

“I want, more than anything, to be the one to… _helps_ you through this heat,” he says softly. “But I cannot know if you… if you speak truly, or if it is merely your condition which renders you so.”

“There is nothing I want more,” Jazzele whispers, a low keen. “Heat or otherwise, I have wanted you for _years,_ Raha _—“_

“You cannot speak truly,” Raha murmurs, taking a step closer to her, as if unable to help himself. His hand reaches up to brush her against her face and she leans into his touch, sighing with relief.

“This cannot… this must be a dream, this—“

“How could I _not?_ ” Jazzele breathes, dazed.

Raha watches her, his eyes roving over her face—and then she watches the slow tide of his features shift into something different.

Something determined, as if he had found resolve within himself.

“I beg you,” he whispers, “to allow me the honor of—I would give you _anything_ you asked, the Twelve know you deserve to be taken care of in every way possible.” He cradles the swell of her cheek, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. “All you need do is ask, Jazz.”

There was nothing in this world she wanted more, and even now, she found herself fearful and reticent.

Could she truly surrender in such a way? Would this only end in ruin, to allow herself to be taken care of by him?

“I-I _want_ to,” she pleads, her hands reaching up to rest on his arms, “but—what if—Raha, I—“

“I will do everything in my power to ensure you are taken care of—be that in this manner or another,” he reassures her gently. His voice is agonizingly tender as he looks up at her, his thumbs sweeping across her cheeks in slow, broad strokes. She shudders at his touch, that fire growing to an unquenchable rage within her.

It feels impossible, to allow herself to take what was being offered, to give into him in such a way—

But she _must._

Gods, she couldn’t…

But they had both waited for so long, and she could not allow another moment to slip by.

Before Jazzele can give herself a moment to regret, she leans down and slants her lips over his.

She hadn’t known what to expect—had only thought in terms of sheer _need,_ to touch and be touched, to have and be _had—_

A low, desperate snarl rips from Raha’s throat—she barely has a moment to think before he’s shoving her forward, against the wall with surprising strength—she opens her mouth willingly, shivering at the feel of his fangs against her parted lips, his tongue sweeping against hers as he tastes, takes, _conquers—  
_

One of his hands sweeps down Jazzele’s body, clutching tight at her thigh to drag it upwards, hitching it over his hip—he takes advantage of the space to draw her down and closer, nipping at her neck, her collarbones, his teeth dragging against her skin and igniting a wild blaze in her.

“Please,” she keens, tangling her hands in his hair, furiously working to undo his braid, casting aside the hair pins, “please, Raha—I want _you—“_

“Of course,” he mumbles against her, leaving a last kiss on her jaw. “Of course.”

He pulls back for a moment—

And she can’t _stand_ it.

She drags him against her again, both of them stumbling backwards for the bed—impatient and flustered, Jazzele pushes him, falling on top of him without her mouth leaving his, her hair curtaining them both as she kisses him with a fury she did not think herself capable of.

His hands sweep up her legs, so painfully reminiscent of her dream of him this morning, and she nearly weeps at the memory of it, at the mere idea she could have such a thing in reality.

Hands curving over her haunches, Raha slides backwards until his back hits the wall, tangling a hand in her hair and keeping her pinioned close against as he tastes her, humming against her mouth in contentment.

Straddling one of his thighs, Jazzele finds herself unconsciously bucking against the taut muscle—the slow drag of fabric against her feels _phenomenal_ , otherworldly, rendering her a pliant mess against him as she rocks her hips.

He parts to speak into her ear, his breath scorching against her. “You have no idea how _wild_ I’ve been for you all day,” he growls, “wanted to get you alone—leave _my_ marks on you everywhere, so everyone would know _whose_ you are—“

She _mewls_ at the mere idea of it, the sound so shrill and embarrassing—he spreads his hands wide over her buttocks, digging into the flesh, driving her tighter down onto him as she writhes.

“And you wearing these clothes—do you have any idea how _tempting_ you are? Teasing me like this? You’re like to drive a man mad.”

Gods help her, she was nearing close already—her movements grow frantic, desperate, and surely he could feel exactly how _wet_ she was for him.

“That’s it, my love,” he purrs—he bites at her ear, her head burying instinctively into his shoulder, panting and whimpering against his neck.

“So _good_ for me.”

His affirmations are the sweetest poison—Jazzele finds herself wanting nothing more than to please him, to keep those kind, tender words coming over and over.

Her hands move of their own volition, nails dragging down his tunic, sliding down to his breeches—he bucks up into her hand when she cups her hand around him, his length straining against the cloth.

“Raha—“ she pleads, the only thing she knows, for she has no words left to articulate, leaving open-mouthed kisses against his neck as she grinds against his thigh.

She could feel it—gods help her, she was going to come on him right here, reduced to sobs and whimpers as her hips move, frantic and desperate.

“Thought about you so many times,” he whispers—she convulses against him in a helpless paroxysm,so taken aback by his filthy murmurs, “even in the First—you haven’t the _faintest idea_ how badly I’ve wanted you, Jazz—how many times I’ve came thinking about you like _this—_ “

She can’t possibly get closer to him but she certainly tries—clinging to his shirt as if it were a lifeline.

She cries out his name in a broken, helpless prayer; _“Raha, please—!”_ One, two more pumps of her hips and she was coming apart, her thighs clenching hard around him as pleasure itself threatens to wink her out of existence.

“Let yourself go— _gods_ you’re incredible, coming for me like this,” Raha purrs, low and sultry as she shudders around him, still rocking her hips against him as she rides out her climax—instinctively she crushes his mouth to hers.

She whimpers into his mouth, their tongues sliding slowly, languid, tasting one another.

Were the circumstances any different, perhaps that would have been enough—gods, surely _more_ than enough for her—but before she can stop herself, she’s pawing at the fastens on his breeches, sucking on his bottom lip and dragging a heady groan from his throat.

“Need you,” it comes out a low, raw keen, a noise she hadn’t thought herself even capable of producing, “need you _in_ me—“

Raha arches his hips upwards as she impatiently yanks down his breeches, dragging his smalls down with her. “How did we last _this long_ without this,” he groans, his fingers digging into the silken tangle of her hair as she rakes her nails from the V of his hips down his thighs, “you are—the most _exquisite_ thing—“

She circles his girth with a loose hand, giving him a slow, testing pump—she found herself yearning to take him into her mouth, to trace her tongue over the swollen head, to find out precisely what he tasted like, how it would feel to have him stretching her mouth so wide it ached—

And perhaps were she any less fevered, she may have.

But eons of genetic compulsion drives her to hook a leg over his hips, straddling him—

“You’re far too dressed,” Raha whispers—his trembling fingers catch on the fine gold chains across her torso, sliding upwards to palm one of her breasts—

Jazzele tugs her smalls aside, the tip of him parting her folds, that which she had been _begging_ for all hers for the taking.

“Then undress me,” she purrs.

So slick she was nearly dripping with it, bracing herself with a hand on his thigh, she lowers herself onto him,

Jazzele had wanted to watch him as she took her own pleasure on him, to see his noble features reduced to torment and ecstasy, but something perceptible _snap_ s in the man she had always known as kind, gentle, understanding—

“Wicked _white,”_ he snarls, his voice worn rough and low—the hand on her jewelry yanks her hard against him, the gold chains breaking under his harsh grip—

It had never felt so _impossibly_ good, she hadn’t known it could possibly feel like this—she had never been so ready, clenching around him and crying out with just how godsdamned _good_ he feels—

He rips her bandeau upwards, exposing her breasts, crushing her to him as he mouths desperately. The harsh brush of his teeth feels just as wonderful as she could have hoped, laving her painfully swollen nipples with teasing flicks of his tongue—gods, she wondered if she could come from _that_ alone.

She rocks her hips forwards, then back, driving down hard onto him—he bucks into her with a broken grunt, muffled by her flesh—she was so impossibly, _deliciously_ full with him—

Raha cradles her cheek—she pants against his hand, hips moving furiously, driving him deeper and deeper into her.

It was never enough and yet it was _too_ much.

She has never been so oversensitive as he ignites nerve-endings her she didn’t even knew _existed—_

“You feel so—“ he words taper into a ragged growl as he bucks into her, driving a wild yelp from her with the force of it, “—so _fucking_ good, Jazz— don’t stop, I want—need to see you come again—“

She feels her whole body flush at his words, at once so filthy and so _loving,_ a combination she never dreamed would fall from his lips.

She rolls her hips, a lewd variation of one of her dances, and he swears a dark, low oath, pushing himself up to capture her lips with his.

“Just like that, please, _please—_ let me fill you, want to see it _dripping_ out of you—“

”By the Twelve,” she whispers, shocked at the current of sheer raw _need_ that razes every ilm of her body at his obscene words— “Please, _Raha—_ “

“Come for me,” he says, fevered—kisses up her sternum to bite down into her exposed shoulder, driving a squeal from her with the painful pleasure of it all. “Let yourself go for me, just this once—“

Jazzele’s vision blazes white, and she _sobs,_ broken and plaintive, as her entire body clenches around him—digs her nails into his back, no doubt scoring his skin, riding him in frantic spasms as her climax overtakes her. It drowns everything out—her smallest of muscles squeeze impossibly tight around his cock—

Before she comes down from those heights, she’s dimly aware of being tumbled forward into the sheets—Raha crushes her into the bed as he fucks her, driving impossibly deep into her with each of his frantic, harsh thrusts, the wet slap of skin-on-skin so lewd and yet phenomenally, deliciously _right—_

His canines pierce the soft flesh of her shoulder when his own rise overtakes him—and perhaps it is the still-lingering effects of the heat, or just the sheer elation of being as entwined as she possibly could be with him but she finds herself succumbing to another climax—smaller, sharper. but no less intense than the last, burying her face into the pillows as she sobs and whimpers, feeling him pump his spend into her, everything in her mind telling her this was hallowed, sanctified, _right_ , this was as good as it would ever get…

Raha buries his face into the sheets with a groan, cradling her face tenderly. “Are you…. Heavens above, I don’t… know what… came over me…”

“You _did_ say,” she pants, the words foreign and difficult on her tongue, ‘’that such a thing could trigger a heat in _you…”_

Raha huffs a breathless laugh. “That thought doesn’t distress me nearly as much as it did.” He turns to press a whisper-soft kiss to her forehead. “Are you well? I fear we may have overexerted you—“

As if in response to his question, a snarl rips out of Jazzele’s stomach—he chuckles against her skin.

“I haven’t eaten since last night,” and she adds abashedly, “though I do not know if I can bear with you leaving.”

If she had feared his affections for her only ran in the physical, Raha casts her doubts aside with a soft, slow kiss.

Unhurried and patient, parting to rest his forehead against hers, lips brushing against hers as he speaks.

“On my honor as a Scion—“

_“Raha!”_ she chastises, surprising into laughter, the motion reminding her of how _sore_ she was—and finding herself rather pleased.

He continues undaunted, the grin on his face heartbreakingly handsome. “I shall procure your meal with the _greatest_ expediency, my Warrior.”

“Go on then,” Jazzele sighs, smiling despite herself.

The distance doesn’t feel _quite_ as agonizing as Jazzele had feared—perhaps their exertions had cooled the bloodtide within her, because she _almost_ feels normal when Raha returns with a platter of sandwiches, chilled fruit, and water.

They eat naked in bed, luxuriating in the indulgence of it, enjoying the quiet silence…

… Until Raha, apparently disinterested in his own food, peppers her long legs with a hundred fiery kisses, each one more radiant and scorching than the last, edging further and further up her thigh.

“You barely ate,” she protests meekly when he tumbles her into the rumpled sheets again—oh, but he would find no fight in her.

His grin he gives her is nigh wolfish, his russet head positioned between her thighs. “I’m simply hungry for something else,” he says, affecting innocence.

And hungry he was.

And Jazzele did not think she would ever get her fill of him.

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively titled 'g'raha tia commits a hatecrime' lmao  
> written on request, the lovely jazzele belongs entirely to writingbunny. thank you so much for your patience and trusting me with your girl!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [to what leads my heart home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29131362) by [writingbunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingbunny/pseuds/writingbunny)
  * [as i lace your hands in mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29222496) by [writingbunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingbunny/pseuds/writingbunny)




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